


Tales from the Sanctuary

by WallaceAndGromitGirl



Category: Chicken Run (2000)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Knitting, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallaceAndGromitGirl/pseuds/WallaceAndGromitGirl
Summary: So our fine feathered friends have escaped. What happens next?A series of post-canon oneshots written for the 20th anniversary of Chicken Run.
Relationships: Ginger/Rocky (Chicken Run)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Just Beginning

The landing of the crate, like the takeoff and everything surrounding it, seemed to happen in just the blink of an eye.

Fowler was the one who first alerted them all to the new problem, in his usual fashion. _“We’re losing altitude!”_ he yelled, his voice blaring out from the cockpit. “The enemy artillery has found its mark!”

Ginger scrambled up the ladder and through the door and was at his side in a second. “How high are we now?” she asked.

“Twenty meters, I’d estimate, and dropping fast! The blasted engine must be giving out.”

Hoping the other girls hadn’t heard that, Ginger leaned over and spoke into the tube running down to where their ‘engine’ sat. “Any chance you can keep us in the air, Mac?”

“Not likely!” she shouted back up. “We’re losin’ material fast as it is!”

As if on cue, the crate let out a dreadful screech of splintering wood and grinding gears. The whole contraption shuddered and pitched to the right, dropping further toward the ground as it did so. It took Ginger a few moments to steady herself afterward.

“Sorry about that,” she heard Mac say rather sheepishly. “Lost a few more parts there…”

Right. Well. They had built the crate just to get them beyond the hill, hadn’t they? Evidently it was going to hold them to that deal. Beyond the hill and no further.

“We’ll have to take our chances in the air, girls!” Fowler said. “Just like in Operation Carrot Stick of ‘42! Now make a jump for it and _flap_!”

“Hang on, hang on!” Ginger looked down at the land stretching out below them, trying to see the path ahead. As tense as she felt, she couldn’t help catching her breath at what she saw. The rolling hills were a brilliant dark green, and the sunrise in the horizon sent rays of gold cascading out in all directions. It was just like the faded picture she had kept on her bunk for so long, admiring and touching. Only this was like being _inside_ the picture. The sun’s rays were bright and warm, and when she finally touched the grass, it would actually be -- 

_“Do we have a plan_ , hen?” Mac shouted up from below, sounding properly agitated at this point.

“Working on it!” Scanning the hills again, Ginger saw what she had been looking for. A sizable island in the middle of a wide lake, covered in tall trees. Large enough, well secluded and very green. And the crate was rapidly closing in on it. _Perfect!_

“You see that island, Fowler?” she said, pointing. “Think you can get us that far before the crate gives out?”

“I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I?” he huffed.

“Good. Aim for the trees, and give us a squawk when we’re just above them.”

He gave her a salute, and she ducked out of the cockpit.

Back in the main room, the girls were trying their best to keep up their pace at the pedals. Even Bunty was started to get winded, however. The crate was continuing to pitch back and forth. Nick and Fetcher were scrambling around trying to corral their merchandise as it slid across the floor, and Rocky was hanging on to a ladder rung for dear life. At the sound of the cockpit door sliding open, everyone looked up and stared at Ginger with worried, expectant eyes.

“Listen up!” she said to them. “There’s a spot we can land just up ahead. Fowler’s got his eye on it now. As soon as he gives the signal, everyone needs to stop pedaling.”

Several exclamations of shock rippled through the crowd of hens. “We’ll fall right out of the bloomin’ sky!” Bunty shouted.

“Exactly.”

“Right, an’ what’s the _real_ plan, then?” said Nick.

Ginger fixed him with her iciest stare. “If you don’t like the sound of that,” she said, “you can try jumping to the ground from twenty meters instead.”

The brief, horrified silence that followed was mercifully broken by Rocky’s voice. “You heard her, ladies!” he shouted, plastering on a veneer of confidence and the smile that came with it. “Pops up there gives the signal, and we shut this thing down!”

As the crate lurched again, they heard Fowler yelling to them again. “Target destination is nearly in position! Prepare for disembarkment!”

“Everyone grab onto something!” said Ginger as she braced herself against the door frame.

Rocky was still looking up at her. “So how’s this gonna work, exactly?”

“If we fall at just the right moment, the trees will slow us down.”

“And you’re _sure_ about that…”

She had no time to answer, because that was when Fowler spoke up again. “Five seconds! Four, three, two, one... _NOW!”_

And just like that, the roaring clatter of the pedals ceased. No one breathed a word to fill the silence that rushed in. For a split second, nothing happened. The crate seemed to hang precariously in the air.

Then it pitched forward and dropped like a stone.

Gritting her teeth, Ginger tried not to scream along with the rest of the flock. Through the back doors on the other end of the crate, she could see the green hills abruptly sink out of view as the sky began to spin. Just glancing out made the flip-flopping of her stomach even worse. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of a quick, silent prayer. _Don’t you dare kill us all now. I won’t allow it._

CRASH! With another violent shudder, the crate hit the treetops, snapping branches as it fell. Hens were tumbling out of their seats, the force of the collision tossing them around like ragdolls. Ginger lost her grip on the door frame and tumbled backward, slamming against the second ladder up to the cockpit.

But then, all of a sudden, it stopped. The crate was still rocking back and forth, but something had managed to halt its fall. The hens, no longer being flung about the room, looked around in a daze or tried to regain their footing. A few pinched themselves as if trying to test that they were still alive.

Ginger could see dense foliage poking through the back doors, but no sign of the ground. They must still be caught in the branches. “Well done, Fowler!” she called up to the cockpit. “Can you see how far up we are?”

No answer.

“...Fowler?”

Still nothing.

A cold, stabbing fear gripped Ginger. Trying to steady her trembling hands, she grabbed the ladder rungs and started to climb up towards the cockpit door.

And _that_ was when the crate let out one final groan and tipped sharply backward.

Ginger yelped as the ladder rungs suddenly dropped out from under her feet, leaving her dangling in the air. Below her, the hens shrieked louder than before as they lost their grips and were unceremoniously dumped out the back of the crate. And as Ginger tried craning her neck to see what was happening, she could feel her own grip starting to loosen as well.

She looked down. Through the chaos and flying feathers, she could see the ground with its carpet of dark, shimmering green. And, without thinking, she let go.

Everything for the next few seconds after that was a blur, figuratively and literally. Ginger fell from the second level of the crate, landed on the first and kept sliding across the floor. She heard Rocky scream out her name and saw him try to grab her by the wing, but he was a second too late. She tumbled over the edge and was falling again, out in the open with no branches to catch her, the whole world flying by in streaks of blue and brown and green.

**THUD.**

For a moment she was seeing stars, but then they blurred and dispersed into the sight of the crate still hanging a few meters overhead. Ginger took deep breaths, trying to regain the air knocked out of her lungs. She was lying on her back, with her cheek pressed against the grass and --

_The grass._

She froze. Then she inhaled again, taking in the smell. Rich, earthy and fresh, tinged with pollen the sweetness of fresh rain. She ran her hands through the soft blades, feeling the way they bent at her touch, then dug her fingers into the cool, damp dirt. On the farm, the dirt had been a solid mass, coarse and barren and difficult to pierce. But this? She had never held something so soft, something that crumbled in her hands so easily.

“Ginger!” 

A shape appeared from the corner of her eye, and then there was Rocky kneeling over her, his face a tangle of concern and fright. “Can you hear me? How many fingers am I…”

“Grass.”

He had to lean in closer to understand her. “What?”

  
“It’s _grass_ ,” she whispered again, faint enough for only the two of them to hear. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Real grass.”

Ginger beamed, then abruptly sat up and leapt back on her feet, pulling Rocky up with her. She gave no thought to the farm, or to the crate, or to the fear of the other girls seeing her composure crumble. For one blessed moment, that was all as far away as the hill had once seemed. Sticking out her wings, she twirled around as fast as she could, laughing and relishing the feel of the grass between her toes. She twirled until she couldn’t stand any longer and collapsed against a tree trunk. Now she was dizzy and short of breath again, but her broad smile never faded for a second.

She opened her eyes and looked at Rocky. “Isn’t it the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen?”

He had a look of awe and relief on his face. “Yeah,” he managed to say, but he was still looking at her and not the grass.

“I’m too young to die, Nick! I never got to see Birmingham!”

“ _Get off me_ , you great lug!”

The loud wailing snapped Ginger and Rocky out of their reverie, and they looked up to see the rats dangling from the edge of the crate. Well, Nick was, anyway: Fetcher was clinging to his shoulders.

 _“Oi!_ Lovebirds!” Nick called down. “Think you can give us a little help?”

* * *

The cut string of Christmas lights was still long enough to dangle the last few meters from the crate to the ground. With a bit of careful coordination (and much complaining from the rats), everyone who had managed to stay inside the crate was able to get down. Then it was a matter of locating everyone else. Thankfully, the rest of the flock wasn’t far away: Babs, for example, was found happily knitting amidst the patch of weeds she had landed in.

Fowler, to everyone’s relief, was similarly unharmed. Except for a bruised ego, perhaps, since they found him sticking legs-first out of a hawthorn bush. Dealing with _that_ took a while: it was Bunty who finally succeeded in pulling him out.

“Just like back in your day, eh?” Bunty said as she placed him back on his feet. “Try to do something daring, end up with your beak stuck someplace it shouldn’t be?” She had a mischievous grin on her face as she watched the old rooster shake with indignation.

“As your commanding officer,” he said, “I must respectfully request that we never speak of this incident again.”

“Can’t promise that.”

Fowler ignored her and began to strut around the tiny clearing they were in. “All hands are accounted for? Jolly good. Not a painless operation, but the best sort of landing is the one you can walk away from, what what! That’s what old Jacko used to say. Oh, this is _marvelous_ terrain! Ideal for a cricket pitch. Or perhaps a… _gah!”_ His train of thought was derailed as he caught sight of Rocky, who was looking as though he would very much like to sink into the ground at that moment.

The old rooster’s shock quickly gave way to anger. “What in the name of Churchill is the Yank doing here?!?”

“There’s no need for that, Fowler,” Ginger said. “Didn’t you see him when…”

“Why, back in my RAF days, if a _deserter_ dared to show his sorry face in camp again, the punishment would be _unspeakable!”_ Fowler continued, jabbing his cane at Rocky’s chest on the final word.

Ginger pushed the cane aside as she stepped between them. “Fowler, _stop it_. I’ll deal with him from here. And I expect you to show him a little gratitude.”

 _“Poppycock!_ If it weren’t for him, we…”

“At best, we would all still be trapped on that farm,” Ginger said, her voice and her stare unwavering. “And at worst, we would all be pies. Do remember that, please.”

Fowler sputtered a few more times, but he could tell that was getting him nowhere. “Very well. I leave the dispensation of justice in your hands.” His composure more or less regained, he marched off, still muttering under his breath about insubordination and court-martialling.

As the flock dispersed, Ginger could feel Rocky’s hand hesitantly slip into hers. She turned around, already knowing what she wanted to ask, but he asked it first.

“Could I talk to you, please?” he said. “Alone?”

* * *

 _“Oi_ , Fetch, keep still. They’ll see us.”

“But you’ve got the better view! All I’ve got are these leaves in me way.”

“Shush!”

Nick and Fetcher had seen the old rooster’s outburst at the Yank, of course. So when they also saw the Yank walking off with Ginger towards an isolated cluster of trees, they knew at once what was going to happen. _Obviously_ the hen was going to give him a good tongue-lashing about how he’d lied to them all, _especially_ those poor rats who were never going to get their promised eggs.

Fetcher had leaned over to Nick and simply said “Wanna watch?”

“...Yeah, alright.”

And that was why they had scrambled up a tree (much harder than it looked) and were currently trying not to plummet to the ground ( _significantly_ harder than it looked). And for what? Certainly not the verbal bloodbath they were hoping for.

Ginger wasn’t even the one doing most of the talking -- or much of it at all, really. She and Rocky were standing at the base of the next tree over, and they had been there for quite some time. She stayed rooted to one spot, her wings folded as she watched the rooster pace back and forth. Every now and then she would say something to him in a low voice, but that wasn’t often. Yet she didn’t seem angry with him. The look on her face wasn’t the stern glare that the rats had come to know well. It was solemn and pensive, almost sad.

Rocky, meanwhile, didn’t look like his normal self one bit. Those smooth words and the confidence always radiating from him seemed to have up and left just when he needed them most. He kept moving as he talked, making vague gestures with his hands. Ginger’s silence seemed to worry him even more than her words: he would pause, look to her for a response and get more flustered when she didn’t answer. He looked scared and miserable and small. So very, very small.

At last he said something loud enough to be heard. “If you want me to leave, then I…”

“I don’t.” Ginger approached him and took his hands in both of hers. “It’s the others that you need to ask forgiveness from. You already have mine.”

He looked at her in disbelief. Then he smiled -- not the fake, flashy grin from his poster, but a proper smile.

“If it was up to me,” she continued, “I would say you belong here. But everyone deserves a part in it, I think. Give them your apology, and then we’ll decide. Does that sound fair to you?”

He nodded.

“Off we go, then. Best not keep them waiting.” She paused, then leaned forward and gently kissed him.

They began to walk away after that, her hand still holding his. The pair was still deep in conversation, but they spoke in hushed tones again, much too low for Nick and Fetcher to hear.

Until the moment when Ginger stopped, looked right up at them and shouted “And you two little eavesdroppers come down from there!”

They screamed and sprang back, forgetting in their shock that there was very little for them to spring back _on_. With a flurry of limbs and a volley of curses, they tumbled out of the tree and landed in a pile on the ground.

“That’s better,” Ginger said with a smile, and she strolled away.

* * *

“You all know what this is about.” Ginger was standing on a tree stump with Rocky just behind her, looking over the uneasy crowd of hens. “Rocky has something he would like to say to you all, and I think you ought to listen.”

There were a few whispers and another bit of grousing from Fowler, but no one objected. That was good enough for Ginger, who nodded to Rocky and then hopped off the stump. “Tell them what you told me,” she whispered.

He opened his mouth, wanting to ask her to stay, but she leaned against the side of the stump and looked up at him expectantly. _You have to do this part on your own_ , her eyes said.

“Right. Okay.” He looked out at the rest of the group, which looked back at him with a mix of apprehension and disdain. No one was calling for his head yet, but no one was smiling, either. He found himself wishing they were just another crowd at the circus, expecting sparklers and theatrics instead of something real.

 _Don’t try and give them a show_ , he thought. _Just give them you_.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. He’d been hoping to start with something more eloquent, but that was what came tumbling out of his mouth. “I owe you more than that, actually. I owe you an explanation.”

They stood at attention, waiting.

“Yes, I lied to you,” he continued. “I can’t fly -- not by myself, anyway. And I should have told you that right from the start. But I...well, I wanted to be in that circus about as much as you gals wanted to be on that farm. I thought, ‘If they can keep me from getting sent back there, I’ll be whatever they want me to be.’ But I couldn’t. Not after I got to know you all. Definitely not after I realized how big a mess you were really in.”

More silence, but he could glimpse some flickers of sympathy in their faces.

He pressed on. “I knew I’d taken the whole flying rooster thing too far. And I knew there’d be no easy way to end it if I stuck around. So I did the only thing I knew how to do when the going got tough. I left.”

By now he was finding it easier to stare at the ground, but he could still feel their eyes on him.

“I thought it would make me feel better,” he said. “But it didn’t. I realized that all I’d done was make another mistake. And then I knew that the least I could do was go back and try to make things right.” He took a deep breath. “And...I hope I got that off to a good start.”

Even the rhythmic clicking of Babs’s needles had come to a stop.

“I don’t really know how to put it better than that,” Rocky said. “This isn’t the kind of thing I’m used to. But I'm sorry. If you gals can find it in yourselves to forgive me, I’d be grateful. And I’d be extra grateful if you let me stick around. But if you don’t want me to, I...I understand.”

He waited another moment, then slowly climbed down from the stump. And still there wasn’t a word.

“...You must find us good company if you came back from holiday so early.”

“What?”

Babs had returned to her knitting, unaware of the odd looks now pointed in her direction. “I thought you’d be gone much longer, Mr. Rhodes, but here you are again just like that! It’s really quite kind of you. _And_ it was ever so kind of you to help with the crate, like Ginger said. Does this mean you’ll be joining us on our holiday, then? I’d like that very much.” She focused again on her work, the familiar click of the needles filling the empty space.

“Alright, then,” Ginger said after a moment. “You all heard Babs there. Would anyone else like to say a few words?”

Bunty shrugged. “Oh, I suppose he can stay if he wants. Better than just having the old fool around.”

“He’s a good enough egg,” Mac added. “No harm in keepin’ him around, I say.”

“Me too!”

“Me three!”

The hens all began to speak up at once, echoing each other’s words of agreement. It was unanimous in the end, for even Fowler and gave a single brisk nod. “I suppose he did demonstrate a certain amount of moral fibre when the situation called for it…”

“It’s settled, then.” Ginger smiled up at Rocky. “He stays with us.”

And for just a moment, they both felt as if their joy could lift them off the ground.

“I’ve never been on holiday before,” Babs chirped. “What sort of things do we do first?”

“Well,” said Ginger, “we ought to take a look around the whole island, see what we can do about food. And if we start pulling scrap from the crate, we can start building new huts…”

* * *

It wasn’t until much later, when the sun was high in the sky, that Ginger finally had another chance to rest.

Mac sat down next to her with a satisfied sigh. “We had quite a time, didn’t we, hen?”

Ginger looked out across the wide field where they had chosen to settle down. All around her was a flurry of activity: Babs was laying out knitted groundsquares where the huts would eventually go, Nick and Fetcher had taken charge of the scrap pile and Rocky was helping Bunty build a fire pit.

Feeling the grass beneath her feet had made her heart soar. But this was so much more than that -- it was the feeling of an impossible dream achieved, a bright future and the hope of someone to share it with. A new life for all of them to live as they saw fit.

“We’re not finished yet, Mac,” she said. “We’re just beginning.”


	2. The Knit List

Bunty did a double take when she saw Babs sitting with a pencil and a long sheet of paper, her brows furrowed in concentration as she scribbled. It was not very Babs-like behavior, to say the least.

“And what are you up to, love?” Bunty asked, peering over Babs’s shoulder. It was impossible to guess her intent, for the markings on the paper looked like...well, chicken scratch.

“Working on me knit list,” Babs said without looking up. She looked rather pleased with herself. “Never had the time before, but now we’re on holiday!”

Bunty snorted. “I didn’t know you could make _lists_ , Babs.”

If Babs caught the disdain in her voice, however, she didn’t let on that she had. She just kept smiling and humming to herself as she filled up the paper with incomprehensible squiggles. A few more seconds and Bunty grew bored of the sight. She wandered off without another word. There were eggs to lay, and Fowler hadn’t had his afternoon heckling yet.

Babs stowed her pencil back in her bag and looked over the finished knit list, beaming with excitement. Then she folded up the paper, tucked it safely away, got out her needles and yarn and started to do what she did best. The clicking of the needles became a steady rhythm as she settled in. Cast on, then knit and purl, knit and purl. Increase here, decrease there, don’t forget to pick up that dropped stitch.

_No point in having a knit list if you don’t hop right to it_ , she thought. _Do chickens hop?_

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 1: PILLOWS + POOFY STOOLS**

Babs had never had enough time to knit stuffed things back on the farm, on account of there being no wool to stuff them with. But now she was on holiday near a quaint little farm with some sheep, and Nick and Fetcher had introduced her to a charming old ewe called Shirley who was happy to supply all the wool the chickens could ever need. She threw the loveliest tea parties as well…

But that was beside the point, said point being that Babs could now cross off the first items on her list. The pillows were ever so easy to make: you simply knitted two squares, sewed them almost all the way together, stuffed in the wool and closed the gap. She used every color of yarn she could get her hands on, bright blues and greens and purples and oranges. It was great fun to experiment with the patterns as well. A garter stitch on one, a stockinette or moss on another. It didn’t take long before there was a pillow or two propped up against nearly every tree on the island. After all, thought Babs, sometimes you wanted to rest your back against something softer than a tree trunk when you were busy doing nothing at all.

The stools were also easy to make but took a while longer to explain to the others. She had, in hindsight, perhaps given them a little too much stuffing: they looked like great colorful gumdrops sitting around the fire pit.

“Still, sometimes it’s nicer not to sit on the dirt, isn’t it?” Babs said of them. “And it ought to be much easier on Fowler’s poor old knees.”

“There’s nothing poor or old about my knees!”

“Can you bounce on them?” Fetcher asked, his eyes lighting up when he saw the stools, and he launched himself headfirst at the nearest one without waiting for an answer. It was like flopping into a snowdrift: he sank down into the thick, soft material and lay there motionless. 

After a minute, he pulled his face back out. “Nope, you can’t.”

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 2: BLANKET + WARMER FOR GINGER**

She chose a cream-colored wool for most of the blanket, and blue and green thread for the lacy frills around the edges. The thick wool and moss stitching gave it a texture of tiny soft bumps.

Ginger couldn’t stop running her fingers over the pattern. “It’s lovely, Babs,” she said, staring at the blanket in delight. “But what’s this?”

She held up the other gift that Babs had given her. It matched the colors and patterns of the blanket, but it looked more like a large bag without handles. Were it not for the wide opening and the oval shape, she might have taken it for a misshapen hat.

“That’s an egg warmer!” Babs said. “You pop your egg inside there, snug as a bug, and it helps you keep the little one warm ‘til they hatch!”

Ginger looked taken aback by this, but she kept smiling anyway. “Well, Babs, that’s very thoughtful of you. Although I’m not trying to hatch any eggs…”

“Oh, I know. But it’s good to have that sort of thing around just in case. You might find you need it sooner rather than later, what with you and Mr. Rhodes having your own hut now. And you two go off on holiday together so often!”

  
You could almost see Ginger turning red beneath her feathers as she thanked Babs one more time and hurried away. _She must be very eager to decorate the new hut_.

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 3: TOY FOR FOWLER**

“And _what_ , my dear, do you think a seasoned RAF veteran needs with a _toy_?” said Fowler. “Especially a little blighter like this?”

The “blighter” in question was an orange doll made in the shape of a man, with chunky limbs and a knotty little head. Babs had even gone to the trouble of giving it some great goggly eyes that seemed to stare back at you vacantly. It looked so innocent and placid that it somehow gave you the urge to throw it against a wall.

Babs just smiled sweetly at the old rooster as she said, “It’s a special sort of toy. Mac was telling me all about...oh, what did she call it? Stress relief? Anger management? She used a lot of big words. But she told me it helps to have something to throttle or toss around when you’re in a foul mood. And then I thought of you!”

She took the toy back from Fowler and gave it a good, vicious shaking. The limbs and the head flopped around pathetically. “See?” she said. “You do that and then you don’t feel so bad!”

Fowler stared at the toy in bewilderment for another moment. “...Oh! Oh, I did not think of that. Very well, then. I shall throttle it with great impunity!”

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 4: HAMMOCK FOR MR. RHODES**

The only word to describe the pattern was “cacophony.” The part with the stars had gone well enough, but then the stripes had gone slip-sliding all around and turned into the crosses of the Union Jack. It was a loud, fuzzy mess of red, white and blue.

Babs looked a bit sheepish as she handed it to Rocky. “It’s not quite as neat as I would have liked,” she admitted. “At first I thought I’d knit an American flag, then I thought I’d knit a British flag seeing as you’re one of us now, and I simply couldn’t choose so I just sort of...stuck them together, I suppose.”

Rocky let out a squeal of delight as he unfurled the hammock. “Babsy, hon, you are a _genius_!”

“I am?” she answered, looking shocked. “Why, that’s wonderfully kind of you to say! I’m glad you like the hammock.”

“Like it?” he said. “I _love_ it. Believe me, I am going to do _so much nothing_ with this thing.”

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 5: BOOKMARKS FOR MAC**

This one, unlike the rest of the list, had actually given Babs a bit of trouble at first. You didn’t knit bookmarks, as far as she knew. And if you did, there had been no need to try knitting them on the farm, where there hadn’t been any books. But Mr. Nick and Mr. Fetcher had been to a village only a few miles away and brought back all sorts of things, stacks of books being among them. These had gone to Mac, of course, and she was categorizing them into a little library. And if you had that many books, you were going to need bookmarks.

They ended up being quick and simple. Babs knitted them as flat and as fine as she could so they wouldn’t disturb the pages, and she chose the colors to match Mac’s scarf. Mac would appreciate that, she thought. They were a bit floppy when Babs was finished with them, but they would serve their purpose.

And Mac _did_ appreciate them, thankfully. “Fine craftsmanship, as always,” she said, holding them up to the light to examine the stitches. “And just in time as well! You can’t start more books if you haven’t got a way to keep your place in ‘em, you know.”

“How many are you reading now?”

Mac counted on her fingers for a few seconds. “Eight…? No, no, ten. Shall I lend you another? How’s that first one coming along?”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Babs answered. “I haven’t understood a word of it!”

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 6: GLOVES + SOCKS FOR MR. NICK AND MR. FETCHER**

It was only right, Babs thought, that she knit something for the rats. They had supplied her with so much of her yarn, after all. So she took a good, long look at them, and she saw how Fetcher had gloves without fingers and socks that were worn through, and Nick didn’t have any gloves or socks at all. No, that simply wouldn’t do.

The hardest part was trying to guess their measurements, since they would not allow her to measure their hands and feet. But she knew Nick was broad and Fetcher was skinny, and that was a good enough place to start. Nick’s set was very plain, just brown and gray wool and no elaborate stitching. “Utilitarian,” as Mac or Ginger would say. That seemed to suit Nick. Fetcher, on the other hand, appreciated colors and bobs and bits. So she made his set with light blue and lavender, adding eyelets and lace around the hems. The socks were just a linen stitch, but the gloves were herringbone. She knew Fetcher would be pleased.

Nick’s eyes went wide when she handed him his set, but only for a moment. Then he was back to his regular self. “Ah, well, I suppose they’re alright. Good to finally get a return of investment on that there yarn.”

But Fetcher’s eyes just kept getting wider and wider. “You...you made these for _me_?” he asked, his lip beginning to quiver.

“Of course!” Bab said. “They’re a gift.”

He gasped. “But no one’s _ever_ given me a gift before!” 

And with that, Fetcher burst into tears.

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 7: DECOY EGGS FOR BUNTY**

Babs made five of them in all, little white oval bags with simple stitching that would not convey their true nature. Then she packed them full of stuffing until they were quite firm, and she added a few stones for weight as well. Despite that, it was hardly her best work. These wouldn’t have fooled Mr. Farmer, let alone any self-respecting hen. But that wasn’t who they needed to fool.

Bunty looked askance at the not-eggs when they were offered to her. “You do know I can lay all the eggs I want, don’t you, Babs?”

“That’s why I want you to have these,” Babs said. “They’re decoys.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I know that Mr. Nick and Mr. Fetcher keep trying to take your eggs and it makes you awfully cross. So I thought, what if I made you something that looked like eggs? Then Mr. Nick and Mr. Fetcher would pilfer those instead!”

Bunty’s face had softened as she listened to Babs talk. She looked at her nest, full of eggs, and then back at the decoys. “Well,” she said at last, trying to keep her voice casual. “I suppose it might be a good idea. _Might_.”

Babs nodded and went on her way, satisfied. She knew that was about as soft as Bunty got, and that was fine. Bunty was good at keeping things to herself like that. Not as good as Mr. Nick, who would be getting a mouthful of yarn and wool the next time he tried to steal an egg. She hoped he wouldn’t be _too_ cross with her.

* * *

**THING TO KNIT NO. 8: WINTER THINGS FOR EVERYONE**

Babs had added this final item to her list not long ago, when she felt the first chills of autumn blowing through the trees. Right around the time she had overheard Ginger and Mac talking about what needed to be done to prepare the island for winter. So she had come to them with her proposition -- barreled up to them with it, really -- and they had listened with great interest.

By the end of that day, they had set aside space in one of the huts for her to work in and asked the rest of the flock not to disturb her. Babs had lost track of the world around her after that: every now and then she would call someone in to take their measurements, but mostly it was just a flurry of yarn and needles. She worked through the day and night for at least a week straight, making sure there wasn’t a single stitch out of place. Then she sorted them, stitching the proper name or initial into each piece. It wouldn’t do to go mixing them up: each chicken got their special set.

On the chilly morning when she finished her work, Babs raced around the island like a feathery St. Nicholas, her wings full of parcels. There were hats with pom-poms and tassels, gloves and scarves and beak warmers, coats and capes with fine cable stitching. Fowler got a big gray fisherman’s sweater that was a bit long in the arms, and Mac received a tartan capelet. 

But she saved her finest work for Ginger: a large, dark green shawl with looping cable stitches and fringe all around the edge. It may have been a pain to get the pattern just right, but the sleepless nights didn’t matter much when she saw her friend’s face light up.

And that was that, Babs thought with a happy sigh. Every item on the knit list done. Now she could finally take a break.

She settled down beneath a tree, her back propped up against one of her own pillows. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her needles and yarn, and she began to make a scarf. Knit and purl, knit and purl...


	3. Speaking English

The weeks turned into months, and the months drew close to a year, and it felt more and more like Rocky had always been part of the flock. Like when you had a puzzle that was missing a piece and you finally found it, Ginger thought. Only you’d never realized there was a piece missing to begin with, nor did you first recognize the lost piece when you found it.

She’d rolled her eyes at herself for that one. It wasn’t like her at all to be so sentimental...but then again, you had more time to learn about yourself when you weren’t solely concerned with not being decapitated and stuffed into a pie.

And she knew she was right about Rocky. It was the little things that had captured her attention, like the way he could actually carry on a conversation with Mac now. He was good friends with Babs, always complimenting her knitting and listening with interest as she spoke about it. He was more fond of tea than he liked to admit, even if he did still refer to it as “leaf water.” And he could at least feign an interest in cricket for Fowler’s sake, as he had when Fowler had found a match playing on the radio and insisted that everyone listen in.

“Baseball,” was all he had said to her afterward. “I miss baseball.”

Fowler in particular seemed to be quite pleased with Rocky’s “progress,” as he called it. “You know, we might make a proper British rooster out of you yet!” he declared one day, when he was in an especially good mood. “After all, what is a Yank but a lost subject of the Crown, really?”

Rocky had scoffed at that for the rest of the day, of course. Ginger didn’t blame him. But perhaps, she thought, that was why she had found her latest observation about him so amusing.

It had come to light earlier that afternoon, during one of their walks around the quieter parts of the island. Rocky had been busy helping in Mac’s workshop all day, and it had apparently left him quite baffled. He spoke with his usual swiftness and made broad, elaborate hand gestures as he recounted what had happened. Ginger listened as she walked, not to his words so much as the hurried cadence of his voice. It was a familiar sound by now -- familiar enough that she stopped in her tracks when she noticed something new about it.

“So then I was trying to tell Mac that even  _ people _ can’t land on the moon yet, I don’t see how a  _ chicken _ could, and then…”

“Wait,” said Ginger. “Say that again?”

He gave her an odd look. “What part?”

“Just now. From the beginning.” She furrowed her brows as she tried to concentrate.

“All I said was even people can’t…”

_ “There.” _ Ginger put up a finger to stop him. She had found it: the  _ can’t _ . He didn’t say it the way he had when they’d first met. The  _ a _ was just a bit deeper, a bit broader.

By now, Rocky was looking at her with genuine concern. “Uh, you feeling alright?” he asked. And there was that  _ a _ once again.

A grin broke out across Ginger’s face as she wondered why she had never noticed this before. “Don’t you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Your accent. It’s changing.”

His look of confusion instantly gave way to alarm. “Wait,  _ really?” _

She tried not to laugh as she said, “Only a bit here and there. You have to listen for it.”

“I...I didn’t notice.”

“It makes sense, really.” Ginger started to walk again. “You live out here with us, of course you would start to talk more like us eventually. I didn’t notice, either. Isn’t that odd? I mean, how long have we…” She trailed off as she realized Rocky was lingering behind her. “Rocky?”

He wasn’t nearly as chipper as he’d been just a minute before. His tail feathers drooped, and he seemed lost in worried thought as he trudged along. The look on his face was downright existential.

“Oh, I didn’t mean for it to upset you,” Ginger said, taking his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you’re fine! I just…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “It just feels weird to be thinking about it, that’s all. And you know Pops won’t let me hear the end of it if he catches on.”

“You still sound like yourself, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she told him. “You always will.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

“And you know what else?” she added, lowering her voice. “I rather like the way it makes you sound. It’s cute.”

That made him smile again. “She _ finally _ thinks I’m cute!” he said in mock disbelief, unable to keep from laughing at himself. “Mission accomplished!”

They laughed together as they walked on, happy once again.

“I don’t suppose Mac said anything to you about the moon being made of cheese?”

_“Yes!_ Oh man, she told you that too? What is _up_ with that?”


	4. The Walloping of Snodswallop

Up until quite recently, Snodswallop had been the loveliest, most peaceful village you could imagine. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone else, where you could take a stroll down High Street and nip into the pub for a pint of beer and a steak and kidney pie. Not to mention the distinct lack of young layabouts with their ghastly mop-tops and that horrid noise they called rock and roll. The good people of Snodswallop would tolerate none of that nonsense, thank you very much.

It was, in short, the kind of place that the city folk would call “quaint” or “isolated” or just “bloody boring.” Not that the Snodswallopers cared much for what visitors thought of them. They had their traditions and their isolated stretch of land, and nothing short of Judgement Day itself was going to upend their quiet way of life.

Of course, that was all before the Troublemakers appeared.

At first, the incidents were almost too small to notice. A hairbrush missing from one house, a pair of socks missing from another, a few seed packets missing from the shed of Mr. Brimsey the gardener. Strange, but it was natural to misplace your things every now and then. Only it started happening more and more after that. Mr. Brimsey woke up one morning to find his prize pumpkin gone and all his carrots stolen right from the ground. A few days after that, a riot had nearly started at the pub when all the eggs in the back room vanished overnight. And who could forget the terrible morning when Mrs. Mumford’s store on High Street had been robbed of all its tea and sugar?

Most towns would have suspected one of their own at once, but not Snodswallop. Neighbors simply didn’t go around looting and thieving from each other in Snodswallop, not even if you looked back five hundred years. Obviously it had to be some sort of outside intruder. Perhaps a roving gang hiding in the hills. The old veterans and hunters took to sitting outside all night with their rifles in hopes of catching the blighters red-handed, but to no avail. Even with guards keeping watch all through the town, the thieves were able to waltz right past them all every time they came. And so the Snodswallopers were no closer to discovering who, or even  _ what _ , the Troublemakers were.

“Why, it’s the fairy folk!” said old Mr. Digby, who drank beer and played darts in the pub yard all day. “Perhaps even redcaps! Don’t you remember this past summer, when I saw that great bird flying about just before sunrise? That was fairy magic, that was. And now they’ve settled near here. They steal whatever they can get their little hands on, and they take it back to their fairy fort in the hills. I’ve seen their fairy fort, oh yes I have. They’ve claimed the old bird sanctuary as their own. You can see the tips of their rooftops poking through the trees if you look close enough!” He took another deep, pensive gulp from his pint of beer. “Crooks and varmints, the lot of them. But they can’t fool me, oh no…”

He was met with nothing but silence. Except in the rafters of the pub, where a pair of rats munched their biscuits and snickered uncontrollably.

_ “Fairies!” _ Nick shouted, pretending to slur his words just as the old man had done. “You ever heard of anything that stupid, Fetcher?”

“Do you think it really was fairies, Nick?” his partner answered, lost in thought. “I want to see the fairies!”

“What? No, no, Fetch,  _ we’re _ the fairies.”

“We are?” Fetcher looked disappointed. “Why haven’t we got pretty wings, then?”

Nick slapped a hand against his forehead and swore under his breath. “What I mean is, that old codger down there thinks it’s fairies been stealing all over town, yeah? Only it’s you and me. He’s not properly crediting our handiwork.”

Fetcher’s expression changed as though a small, low-watt lightbulb had switched on inside his head.  _ “Ohhhh. _ So we aren’t going to see the fairies, then?”

“Look, just forget about the bloody fairies. We’ve got work to do!”

* * *

As the sun set on the village, and the Snodswallopers dispersed to their homes, Nick and Fetcher emerged from the pub. They scampered down the narrow stone streets, making their way towards the field on the southern edge of the village. There, a cluster of large bushes grew against an old stretch of drystone wall. The rats dove headfirst into these bushes, making a great amount of noise and rustle.

Then there was the squeal of a small engine suddenly whirring, and out of the bushes burst a red toy Mini Cooper the size of a tricycle. It rolled on through the grass and back on to the main path, its speed only somewhat impeded by the empty wagon it was dragging behind it. Nick sat in the driver’s seat of the car, fiddling with the remote controls that steered it. In the other seat, Fetcher hung his head out the window and let his tongue loll out.

_ “Oi, _ Fetcher, pay attention!” Nick said. “You still got that list Ginger gave us?”

Fetcher took out the small sheet of paper and unfolded it. As far as lists went, this one was hardly impressive. Short and simple, just a few routine supplies they could nab without incident. Ginger didn’t give them big, dangerous jobs anymore like in the good old days. Fetcher wouldn’t admit it to Nick, but that relieved him just a bit.

“Is this what we’re picking up tonight, Nick?” he asked.

“Of course not. We’re picking up that, and then we’re going to have some proper fun.”

* * *

The first stop on their trip was Mr. Brimsey’s garden, always a reliable and poorly guarded source. Well, not poorly guarded tonight: the gardener was sitting by his fence with a mallet in his hands.

Nick examined the list. “Let’s see here...box of nails, box of screws, box of nuts -- she wrote ‘not the edible kind’ in red ink right here. Oh, and five packets of strawberry seeds. Think you can handle that, Fetch?”

“But what about the gardener?”

With a devilish grin, Nick pointed a thumb at the nearby water faucet and the hose that ran over the fence into the garden. “I’ll take care of him.”

Mr. Brimsey had very nearly fallen asleep, but he bolted awake with a shriek as the sprinkler in his garden abruptly switched on by itself, spraying him with ice-cold water. He tried to swing his mallet, only to fumble and drop it on his own toes. He howled in pain as he hopped about clutching his swollen foot: in his confusion, he failed to see that he was about to trip over one of his box planters. Down he went, landing face first in one of his own marrows.

Naturally, there was no time to notice Fetcher hurrying to and from the barn, carrying with him a tall stack of boxes and seeds on the way back. 

“Did you get the right nuts?” Nick asked him when they hopped back into the car.

“Yep! I bit on one, and one of me teeth fell out.”

“Good!”

The toy engine revved, and the red Mini Cooper barreled away into the night.

* * *

They cruised down one of the side roads, taking care to avoid the light from the patrolmen’s torches. Next on the list was cloth, and the rats knew just where to find plenty of that. They parked outside a backyard close to the center of town and slipped through the unpatched gaps in the fence. 

On the other side, ceramic statues stood all around a neatly kept patio. Rabbits with bows on their necks, ladies in powdered wigs and ballgowns, fish in hats...it seemed to Nick and Fetcher that there was a new statue each time they stopped by. The lady of the house must be one of those artistic types. She was certainly one of those daft types, considering how often she left her laundry out on the clothesline during the night.

You needed a bit of creativity to get your hands on these goods. Nick’s solution was to pick up Fetcher and throw him into the air. Never the other way around, much to Fetcher’s chagrin, though “you couldn’t do it anyway,” as Nick reminded him. Once Fetcher had managed to grab hold of the clothesline, it was only a matter of scurrying back and forth unpinning everything. Down came each pair of socks, down came the flowery blouse with the puffed sleeves, down came the lacy bra that landed right on Nick’s head a moment before Fetcher did as well.

“Got everything!” Fetcher chirped. “Nick? Nick, where’d you go?”

“If you bothered to look where you were falling,” Nick said as he shoved him over and got back up, “you would know.”

Fetcher was looking around the patio. “Let’s take one of the statues again!”

“Words after me own heart, Fetch. But not just  _ any _ statue. Not a whole statue, either. I’ve got a plan.” Nick pointed up at a stone pedestal, upon which sat a bust of a stern-looking gentleman with a regal air about him.

“You see that bloke?” Nick said. “We’re going to take his nose.”

Fetcher frowned and cocked his head as he examined the bust. “Just the nose? Why’s that?”

“Anyone can just pilfer a whole statue if they try hard enough. But pilfering just a nose, now  _ that _ takes  _ skill _ . And it’ll make him look much better!”

“It will?”

“Course it will! All the best statues don’t have a nose. It’s that Egyptian style, you see.”

Fetcher did not quite grasp what Nick meant by “the Egyptian style,” but he nodded along nonetheless. “Right! So what do I do?”

“ _ You _ don’t do anything. This part’s for me, seeing as how you need an expert to do it right. A good thief can’t just chip off a statue’s nose and just call it a job done. It needs delicate precision, it does. The touch of a master.” He hurried back out to the wagon, then returned a moment later with a bright red cricket ball. “That’s why I brought this.”

Nick pushed Fetcher aside and then stood at the edge of the patio, at an angle with the bust. “I’ve seen them do this on the telly, you know,” he said, readying his pitch. It’s not just hitting it from the right direction, you’ve also got to have  _ juuust _ the right velocity...like this!”

The cricket ball shot through the air and ricocheted off the bust’s face, knocking it off the pedestal and shattering it on the patio. Then the ball went sailing off a different and struck the post of a flower-covered trellis, which promptly collapsed. Finally it crashed through the back window of the house, eliciting a woman’s scream and the yelp of a cat.

The rats stood frozen in horror. “Is...is that what you meant to do, Nick?” Fetcher finally asked.

“Just grab the frilly things and run!”

* * *

Within a few minutes, lights were switching on up and down the street on both sides of the road. Folks were streaming out of their houses, attracted by the sound of Ms. Sherrington screaming over her broken window, and the night watch came rushing to the scene as well. The culprit had to still be near.

“We ought to spread ourselves out!” one of the constables said. “Establish a perimeter! We’ll be sure to catch him then.”

A thief who was more cautious or simply more clever would have called it a night after that and made an escape, or found a spot to hide until morning. But where cowards saw a dead end, Nick and Fetcher saw an opportunity. So while the Snodswallopers were on the march, they made their way to the back door of the shop on High Street.

Nick had a fair bit of trouble squeezing through the mail slot, but once they were both through, it was easy to climb up and undo the latch on the door from inside. They propped it open with a bit of wood, and then they drove the Mini Cooper right into the shop. It was time to get to work.

It was like letting a pair of children loose in a room full of sweets -- and they  _ did _ make a point of stealing all the Spangles and the Cadbury’s chocolate biscuits. Along with every box of matches, half the food tins, a rainbow’s worth of yarn balls, a portable radio, the entire stock of Earl Grey tea and a framed photograph of Her Majesty.

Fetcher glanced about nervously. “You almost done there, Nick? They’ll be coming back ‘round here any minute!”

“Hang on, don’t rush me! I’ve got to get this just right.” Nick was focused on a chalkboard propped up near the cash register, and he had been drawing on it for the last five minutes.

“You might get us caught. Why’s it so important, anyway?”

Nick shot Fetcher a dirty look.  _ “Really _ , Fetch, I thought I’d taught you better than that! I’m working on our calling card. All the big-shot thieves have to have a calling card. Like this!” He brandished his piece of chalk like a baton as he stepped away from the board. “That’s how the pros do it.”

On the chalkboard, there was now a doodle of a bald fellow with a round head and a long, bulbous nose peering over the top of a brick wall. And just below that, in Nick’s scrawly handwriting, were the words  _ WOT NO SUGAR? _

Fetcher’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s a work of genius, that is! Like one of them Pie-cassos!”

* * *

By now, the goods were piled high up in the wagon, and the rats had to make sure everything was properly tied down with rope. At least, Fetcher had to: Nick was waiting in the car as he fiddled with the dials on the portable radio. Unbeknownst to them both, a crowd of tired and angry villagers was trudging back up High Street. The sun would be rising soon, and hours of searching had yielded no trace of the mysterious vandal.

“Lovely night’s work!” Nick said as Fetcher hopped into the passenger seat of the toy car. “Apart from this bloomin’ radio not making a sound...here, see what you can do with it.” He handed the radio off to Fetcher, grabbed the car controls and started to drive.

Fetcher looked at the radio for a moment, then said “Did you switch it on?” and pressed a single button.

Nick had not, in fact, remembered to switch the radio on. But he had managed to twist the volume knob up as loud as it would possibly go, among other things.

The villagers heard what happened next from the other end of the street. The rats screamed and covered their ears as a deafening, raucous noise blasted out from the tinny speaker.

_ “Take out the papers and the trash!” _ the radio sang.  _ “Or you don’t get no spendin’ cash...!” _

“What did you  _ do _ , Fetcher?”

“I-I just switched it on like you wanted!”

“Well, now you can switch it _ off!” _

“Look!” shouted Mr. Digby, pointing with a gnarled, quivering finger. “It’s the fairy carriage! Catch it before it flies away!”

Nick slammed down on the remote control lever, only to make the car start zooming in reverse toward the angry crowd. Jolting to a stop, he changed direction and sped forward again, all with the music blaring in his face. “Oi, shut up, won’t you?” he yelled at the machine.

_ “Don’t talk back,” _ the radio said.

The rats’ eyes nearly popped out of their skulls, a moment before Fetcher shrieked in terror and flung the radio out onto the pavement. As loud as the music may have been, it was drowned out by the crowd of villagers that came stampeding down the street after the car.

Fetcher curled up in a fetal position in the passenger seat. “What do we do now, Nick?”

Nick thought it over. At first, the escape plan had been simply driving across the bridge and out of town. But now the rats were headed away from the bridge, and there was no turning around with that mob on their tails.

“Why, it’s easy as can be,” he said. “We just take the long way around.” And with that, he cranked up the speed on the Mini Cooper as high as it would go. “Hang on to your cap, Fetch!”

The little car tore down the streets of Snodswallop, twisting and turning every which way to lose sight of its pursuers. The wagon rattled and nearly tipped over with each sharp curve, threatening to spill the precious cargo. Each bump of the cobblestones felt as though they made the car go sailing into the air, like it had just driven at top speed off a ramp. Fetcher hung his head out the window again, this time to vomit up his biscuits.

None of it was in vain, however. The car was putting distance between itself and the mob. And though the good folk of Snodswallop were numerous and determined, they weren't as organized as chickens could be. They tripped on each other’s feet, fumbled with their torches, got stuck in single-file in the narrow alleyways.

Nick cackled as he watched it all through the rearview mirror. “Well, that takes care of those old bats, don’t it?”

“Unless they thought of splitting up,” said Fetcher.

“They didn’t think of--”

“ _ Gotcha _ , you little vermin!” It was Mrs. Mumford the shopkeeper, suddenly leaping out of the dark to try and tackle the Mini Cooper. The rats screamed and swerved, and the old woman went sailing over their heads, crashing into a trash can on the other side of the alley. 

The whole altercation didn’t last more than two seconds, but it was enough time for Nick to lose his focus. He turned to the right, drove under an arch and then had to swerve again to avoid hitting a brick wall. And another wall, and another.

“What is it _now?”_ he snapped as he brought the car to a stop.

The rats looked around. They had driven into a tiny, walled-off courtyard full of crates and shelves and dumpsters -- the back courtyard of the pub. The only way out was back through the gate into the alley, and they could hear human voices rapidly getting louder from both ends of the path. They were trapped like...no, no, they weren’t going to say it.

That was when Nick happened to glance at the corner of the yard, toward the top of the wall. There lay the answer. A broken, lopsided shelf, one of its boards placed at a diagonal touching the roof.

A wicked grin spread across his face. “Well, mate, I would say it’s been an honor,” he said to Fetcher as he pressed down on the control lever, “but it ain’t been an honor just yet.”

Mrs. Mumford was the first to come tearing into the pub courtyard, screaming at the top of her lungs with the rest of the townsfolk charging behind her. But then, just as quickly as they had run in, they stopped. The courtyard was empty. There was no trace of the mysterious car, the one they thought they finally had trapped just a moment before. It couldn’t have found a spot to hide itself -- where had it gone?

“Up and vanished, of course,” muttered Mr. Digby. “Just like all fairy things.”

One of the men looked up at the roof and gasped. “Look!” he cried. “There!”

The car and wagon were driving along the edge of the pub roof, knocking down tiles as it went. Fetcher stuck his head out the window and laughed at the crowd below, which congealed again as it frantically tried to follow the path of the car. “They’re like little ants, Nick!”

“Hush! I got to get this next part just right. You getting that little present ready for them?”

“Sure am!” Fetcher had pulled the lacy bra out and a matchbox out from the pile of cargo. He now giggled to himself as he struck a match and held the flame to the fabric.

The angle of the roof was shallow enough that you could coast across it and pick up speed as you did so. Nick now positioned the car at one end of the roof, keeping his eyes on the other rooftop that stood just past the courtyard.

“Right, then,” he said. “If they thought that little stunt was impressive, wait until they see  _ this!” _

The car shot forward. The little engine squealed, and the wheels spun so fast that they gave off smoke. The edge of the roof came rushing up, closer and closer...

_ “WOOOOO!” _

The people of Snodswallop froze, mouths all agape, as they watched the toy car and wagon go flying right over their heads. A figure like a tiny man leaned out the driver’s side and gave them the “V” sign with the palm facing inward, and another tiny man leaned out the passenger side with a ball of fire in his hands.

“Now, Fetcher!” Nick yelled.

_ “Bombs away!” _

Fetcher chucked the flaming bra, and the people screamed and scattered as it dropped into their midst. It delicately brushed the shoulder of Mr. Digby, who made a noise not unlike a dying cow and then fainted dead away.

As for the car, it landed on the opposite roof in a shower of sparks and continued to speed along. It dropped from the roof down to the brick wall surrounding the yard, and from there back down to the street. After that, it was a straight shot to the bridge over the stream.

“What’d I tell you?” said Nick. “Easy as can be.”

The laughter of the two rats echoed through the air as the car and wagon disappeared into the night.

* * *

“And so you see, it ended up being a bit more unconventional job than usual,” Nick was saying, crossing his arms and wearing a satisfied smirk. “But that just proves how we’re the best ones for these sorts of jobs, you see. Fetcher and I, we gave them a right good scare. Veni, vidi, vici.”

“That’s Italian!” Fetcher chirped.

When Ginger finally looked up from her clipboard, she gave the two of them a terse look and raised her eyebrow. “Mmm-hmm. And that’s why you’re telling me you deserve extra eggs for this one.”

“I mean, we  _ did _ get everything on the list. And then some. And we got it all back in one piece, ‘cept for the radio.”

“We had to throw away the radio, you see,” Fetcher added.

“Yes, I understand that.”

“Because it talked to us. They’re not supposed to do that.”

_ “Okaaaay.” _ Ginger took a small step back from them. “Everything else is accounted for, so you can go see Bunty for your pay. Half a dozen, as agreed.”

_ “What?” _ the rats said in unison. “Come on, what about that part with the--”

“As. Agreed.” And with that, Ginger turned on her heel and walked off.

Nick immediately fell to sulking. “I really thought she’d be impressed by that one.”

“I dunno,” said Fetcher. “Eggs is eggs. But a proper good adventure like that only comes along every now and then.”

Nick thought about it. “Yeah...yeah, I guess it does.” Then, as though not wanting to admit that Fetcher was  _ completely _ right, he added, “I still want eggs, though.”


	5. The Fences In Our Heads

Darkness. Nothing but darkness all around her, in every direction. But why? Where was she?

Ginger tried to step forward, but an icy cold metal wall blocked her way. When she tried to step back, she felt another wall behind her. To the left and right, walls. A little enclosed square barely large enough to breathe in, let alone stand or move.

She felt her stomach churn at the thought. “No, no, no,” she muttered to herself as she ran her hands along the walls, searching for an imperfection that might hint at a hidden door. Her hands came away coated in gritty particles, and she rubbed them between her fingers -- coal dust.

_Am I back in the bunker?_

“No,” she said again, her voice breaking. “That’s impossible...we escaped.”

But saying so did not seem to make it true. The bunker walls still stood, blank and desolate as ever.

“We _escaped_ , you hear me?” Ginger shouted as she slammed a fist against the metal. “It’s over!”

And then the world began to shake. A faint rumbling from off in the distance grew louder and closer until it seemed like a whirling storm with Ginger trapped in its center. It was trying to deafen her, trying to shake her very bones apart with the force of its vibrations. She sagged against the wall, covering her ears in a vain attempt to block out the noise.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that Ginger knew that sound -- it was the pie machine, back from the dead.

She was clawing at the walls now. _I have to get out of here_ , she thought. _I have to find the others before it’s too late_. Even though she knew in the bottom of her heart that it was too late already.

That was when the noise around her changed. Suddenly she could hear voices mixed into the sound of the churning gears and pistons. A flood of familiar voices all screaming out in terror, dropping off one by one as they were forced into the gaping maw of the machine.

 _“No!”_ Ginger screamed. She threw herself against the wall over and over again, not caring how badly it hurt. “You can’t do this! I won’t let you kill them!”

The darkness above her suddenly erupted into blinding light, as though someone had opened the lid of the bunker. She felt a giant, monstrous hand reach down and wrap around her neck, then lift her off the ground.

Gasping for air, she struggled and kicked, thinking she might be able to run if she could fall from her captor’s grasp. But the hand’s grip only grew tighter and tighter. Now it wasn’t just choking her neck, it was closing in around her ribs and her lungs, as though it meant to crush the life out of her body. She felt herself go limp and numb, losing the strength to fight.

And through it all, she could still hear her friends screaming for help.

The hand slammed her down onto a hard surface and held her there. In the corner of her eye, she saw the glint of a sharpened axe blade coming toward her. The edge pressed against her neck, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

She screamed.

She woke up.

For a few horrible seconds, Ginger didn’t realize what had happened. Her mind was still halfway inside the dream, and her surroundings didn’t help: all she could see was a dark room, and the weight of a limb rested heavily on her torso. She froze, trying to clear her foggy mind and think of an escape plan as her heart kept thudding at top speed in her chest. 

But her eyes adjusted to the soft moonlight streaming through the gaps in the window curtains, casting a pale glow along the floor of her small hut. _Not the farm_ , she thought with a deep sigh of relief. _The island. Home._

And the weight pinning her down, that was only Rocky’s wing draped across her waist. He was still sound asleep, snoring faintly. Whatever noise she might have made hadn’t been enough to disturb him.

 _Thank goodness for that_ , Ginger thought. They had woken each other with their nightmares before.

She lay still for a few minutes, staring at Rocky’s face and listening to the rise and fall of his breath. Then she carefully moved his wing aside and slipped out of her bunk. The shawl she had received from Babs last autumn was draped over a nearby chair. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she stepped out into the night.

It wasn’t quite spring, not yet. Scattered around the greenery were grayish-white patches of snow, and a light frost covered the grass blades. Ginger could feel the ice particles melt beneath her feet as she walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the village.

Not a soul awake besides herself, of course. Even the fire in the pit had died down to a pile of embers. It was still a few more hours before sunrise, judging by the height of the moon. A few more hours of the peaceful stillness that came from sleeping safe and sound.

Well, on most nights it felt peaceful. Tonight it only seemed to chill Ginger even more than the late winter air.

“Everyone’s fine,” she whispered to herself, annoyed with her own chattering nerves. _“You_ are fine.”

Better to dream of captivity and wake up in freedom than the other way around, she supposed. But perhaps it would be nicer not to dream at all.

Ginger shivered again as a gust of cold air whipped around her. Taking one more look at the huts in the clearing, she walked away, returning to the warmth of her bunk and her mate.

Rocky unconsciously wrapped his wing around her again when she lay back down. She smiled and closed her eyes as she leaned into his embrace.

But she could not fall back asleep.

* * *

“You aren’t quite yourself today, hen,” said Mac.

Ginger blinked her tired eyes a few times before answering. “I don’t know why that would be the case,” she lied, taking another sip from her thimble full of tea.

Mac, of course, took that as asking for an explanation. “You’ve hardly said a word all morning. Now _that_ would be unusual enough by itself, but paired with the fact that you nodded off three times during the meeting this morning…”

“I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“She might have a point, actually,” Bunty said. “You do seem even gloomier than usual.”

“And you’re often quite gloomy!” chirped Babs.

“Thank you very much for that…”

They were all sitting near the fire pit, having a spot of midday tea as they watched the rats and the hens play a game of badminton. Rocky was nearby trying to fix a radio, and Fowler strutted around the clearing in his usual fashion. Their little world was just as picturesque as always. 

Almost too much so, Ginger suddenly thought, as though it could dissolve right before her eyes…

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she finally said.

Mac nodded. “And?”

“And…” She traced the rim of her cup with one finger. “You won’t think I’m being foolish if I tell you why, will you?”

The other three hens shook their heads, though Bunty shrugged a little before doing so.

“Do you...ever have bad dreams?”

“You mean like the sort where your teeth fall out?” Babs asked.

“I mean about the farm.”

Babs’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she whispered, quickly looking away. Mac and Bunty said nothing at all.

“I can’t stop wondering how it might have all gone wrong for us,” Ginger continued, wanting to fill the sudden silence. “And sometimes I start to imagine that I’ve been dreaming all this time, and any minute now I’m going to wake up back in my old bunk. Alone.” She looked down, into the swirling darkness of her tea. “It’s like that fence in my head is still there. I can’t explain it.”

“Shell shock.”

The hens looked up in surprise. Fowler was standing by them now, evidently having stopped his march when he caught a few of Ginger’s words.

“Of course, they had stopped calling it that back in my day,” he continued. “That was the Great War. But it’s the same no matter what you call it.” He sat down with the group, looking up at the sky. “I saw it once, you know. We had a fellow in our squadron named Tommy. Not a chicken, but a capital young man nonetheless. His plane went down during the Battle of Britain. All men aboard lost but for him.”

“What happened to him then?” Ginger asked.

“The poor boy recovered well enough, or so we thought. He was never the same after that. Very quiet, kept to himself. Complained that he could hardly shut his eyes at night for fear of what he’d see in his dreams.”

Ginger nodded along without realizing it.

“I don’t know what became of him after the war,” Fowler said. “No improvement to his condition, I suspect.” He shook his head sadly. “And all that because of what happened on a single night. Why, it only makes sense that a prisoner trapped for years would have such a reaction.”

There was another moment of silence among the group, and then Mac spoke up. “Aye, I understand, Ginger,” she said. “Had a few of those thoughts myself.”

“You too? Really?”

“Well, why _wouldn’t_ I? I can tell you every single way that crate ought to have broken down on us. Of course I wonder what might have happened.”

“And I do have such terrible dreams as well,” Babs added with a shudder. “Where I get taken to the chop, or covered in gravy and thrown in a pie!”

Bunty muttered something under her breath, then said “What are you lot staring at me for?” as the other four heads in the group turned to face her. “Oh, fine,” she said after a moment. “I think about it too. I wonder if I could have given away more eggs. To...to help out the girls who were in trouble, you know. Edwina and Lucille and Peggy and all the others.”

Ginger quickly looked down and wiped away the tears brimming in her eyes. When she spoke again, it was hard to raise her voice above a whisper. “Heaven knows I could have done more.”

Fowler frowned at that. “My dear,” he said in the tone he might have used to address a respected fellow soldier, “you did far more than what anyone ever asked of you. Let that be enough.”

They looked out across the field, over to where Rocky was still fiddling with the guts of the radio. “I don’t suppose your Yank would really understand what it’s like,” Fowler said, rolling his eyes.

“He does,” said Ginger.

 _“Does_ he now? Hmmph. Shows it can happen to anyone, I suppose.”

“It’s a bit different for him, I think.” She thought of what he had shared with her. The memories of cramped cages and blinding lights, the acrid stench of smoke and the deafening blast of the cannon. The dreams of racing back to find the farm empty and abandoned, of seeing her die in front of him again and again.

“I think you must do him a bit of good,” Fowler said at last. “You make him easier to tolerate, at the very least.”

“Fowler,” she said, “there’s something else I want to know. This feeling, the...the shock. How long does it last?”

The old rooster shook his head and shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Nor does anyone else, I think. But perhaps it’s more a matter of the individual.” He took the cup of tea Babs poured for him and sipped from it. “At any rate, you’re still young. Someday you’ll have lived more of your life out here than you did in their little prison camp. Don’t you forget that.”

Ginger let his words sink in. “Yeah,” she said as she smiled a bit, the first time she had done so that day. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“And that goes for the rest of you as well,” Fowler added with an authoritative nod. “Well, perhaps not Bunty.”

“Oh, _naff off!”_

The other hens laughed, and the grasp of the cold air and the colder memories became just a bit weaker.

“I’ve got an idea,” Ginger said. “Let’s have a toast.” She raised her teacup. “To us. To our home. And to all the ones we couldn’t take with us.”

The others raised their cups with her, and they all drank together.

“Hey!” It was Rocky, calling and waving to them from across the field. “I think I finally got this thing going!” he said, a moment before he nudged the radio dial and yelped as a stream of garbled static poured out of the speaker.

Ginger stifled her laughter as she beckoned for him. “I told you to leave that for Mac, you know.”

“Come on, it builds character. Or something.” He looked at the others. “And what are you guys up to?”

Ginger smiled at him. “Oh, just talking about old friends. Will you have some tea?”

They spent the rest of the afternoon gathered around the fire pit, chattering and laughing as the hours slipped by. And at the end of it all, as the sun finally began to set, the world looked much different to Ginger than it had that morning. For the first time, she found herself really noticing the buds on the treetops and the delicate flowers poking through the remaining snow. 

The seasons were finally changing. And this time it meant the village had survived its first winter, she noted with a swell of pride and relief.

 _Well, of course we did,_ she thought. _After all we’ve survived already, what couldn’t we do?_


End file.
